Lorin
by l'douenna
Summary: War is brewing in the horizon while we traverse between the lives of an enchanting violet-eyed village beauty and a demigod prince of an enchanted land. Their fates weren't sealed and written in stone, but their forged bond would be unbreakable. Review!:


_The muffled rhythm of hoof beats drew closer by the second. The sound of the villagers' helpless scampering into the scant underbrush registered in the raven haired girl's ear as pungent wood smoke thankfully covered what little could be called a once thriving trading village. She felt panic at the bottom of her stomach as she thought of the fate of her parents. They were not in site, and she quelled the urgency to scream their names aloud for fear of being taken by the dark beings that were nearing their hideaway. An eerie sense of dread settled over the quivering people._

Frieda hustled about the cramped, smoky kitchen preparing for the arrival of the village's most esteemed knight and lord of the ancient manor. The resent birth of her firstborn did not deter her from living up to her reputation as a gracious hostess and fine cook.

"_Surely,_ "she thought as she bustled habitually about the kitchen as she chopped, basted, stirred, and roasted victuals for a night of sumptuous feasting, "_The blessing of the old knight was worth the temporary pains she felt."_

Women from the nearby village had gathered to prepare for the night's celebration, as well as to see for themselves the beautiful dark haired infant born to parents-and a throng of neighbors- who came from generations of hardy people known for their wheat blond tresses and sea blue eyes.

But Frieda and Larsen thought only of their good fortune to have in their loving possession the tiny babe after almost twenty years of union. She was a manifestation of their love in spite of the barren years and not one of them had doubts about the infant's lineage. They were a pleasant and hardworking couple who thought more of the welfare of the villagers rather than themselves, hence Larsen and his Frieda was made custodian of the large manor that lay in the outskirts of the little mountain village.

The manor's tables had been carried outdoors and scrumptious dishes were proudly laid out by the women of the village. The men carried kegs of home grown vintage from the manor's underground larder into the clearing where a roaring fire warmed the folk from the cool mountain air. The village musicians played frolicking tunes to the delight of the village's younglings.

Cheerful melodies and delectable smells wafted together into the elderly knight's clean but unused suite as he hunched his still sinewy frame over a heavy oak chest in search of a token among the forgotten toys and bric-a-bracs of decades long gone. Years of painful memories flooded into his tired, old mind, the same ones that haunted the very halls of his manor as he carefully laid out the chest's contents on the spartan bed. Nearly five decades had rolled by since he last touched the possessions of his long gone wife and still born daughter but the pain was still as fresh as it was back then. Unable to face his grief, Sir Heald of Kilgan Pass mostly stayed away from his ancestral home unless necessity demanded it, such as today, and settled in with the Monks of Benevolence in an old monastery across the craggy mountain pass. He had left the monastery as soon as the news arrived with the caravan that carried his owner's share of produce and had travelled the arduous distance with the aid of a loyal but tad too eager squire, homegrown from the little unassuming village. Seeing this middle aged couple beaming down at their dark-haired daughter aroused a tide of piercing pain and nostalgia that had been hidden well in the recesses of his mind, or so he thought. Seeing the little one for the first time was like seeing the very image of his little dark haired babe, who never had the chance to even blink up at him with clear, intelligent purple eyes.

Stamping down his own consuming grief, he smiled as he blessed the child and her parents, asking them to christen her Lorain, after his daughter. After handing them his Lorain's unused belongings that were painstakingly made by his wife's own hands, he thanked the villagers for celebrating with his faithful steward and custodian and retired early with the excuse of the cold mountain air making his old battle injuries ache uncomfortably.

The christening and joyful celebration thereafter lasted far into the early hours of dawn before the happy villagers trudged back into their homes and into their beds. The old knight rose early to bid farewell to Larsen and his wife, much to their dismay. They had looked forward to their liege's visit for a very long time, eager to show him how his fertile lands have yielded plenty in their years of custody but the old knight silenced down their beseeching with a wave of customary nonchalance. The same portions to be sent to the monastery by caravan during harvest would be enough. Even in the advent of his passing away, that would remain his last wish. The manor was theirs in ownership now, not just in custody, until his nephew errant; a disinterested heir to the throne of some distant, if not mysterious neighboring land would ride in and claim the manor for himself, as long as he agrees to uphold his dying wishes. A bleary eyed squire was summoned and he helped the old knight mount his steed. As they rode away to the foreboding mountain pass, the kindly old knight's aging eyes swept across the manor and the fertile plain for the last time, grieving once more for the home that he had lost.

Meanwhile in the distant, if not mysterious neighboring land, a ten year old prince and heir to the throne ran as fast as his little legs could carry him into the secluded wooded area across the castle grounds, all the while hoping that the sharp eyed elven guards would again pretend not to have seen his mad dash for freedom. The Queen's bower, as it was known, was a favorite playground of the rambunctious little rascal. His princely tutoring always got tedious around ten in the morning, as soon as the warfare training ended and the politics and history lessons started. As he reached the first copse of enchanted forest, he stopped and listened with a trained ear for the telltale sound of splashing from across the invisible protection barrier. Hearing the welcome sound, he barreled through the barrier to dive headfirst into an emerald green pool, princely clothes and all.

A little water sprite came up sputtering and shaking an angry fist at the prince as he backstroked to the mossy edge of the pond. Loud guffaws could be heard along with the sprite's angry chattering.

"A Faerie prince as ill-mannered as you must be banished to the mortal world, Dunne, where all uncouth little boys may as well be found- frightening unsuspecting ladies in their bath." A clear, contralto voice rang though the waters, causing a rippling of sorts. The speaker, a golden haired goddess with flowing robes of emerald and a crown on her head, lounged easily on the outcropping rocks as if it were made of soft cushions.

"And I miss you as much, dear mother," declared the soaking prince as he placed a watery kiss on her ivory cheek, smirking at the dozen or so water sprites who glared at him as they combed and bedecked their mistress's hair with emeralds.

"Haven't you lessons with that dreary elfin tutor?" she asked, looking at him knowingly. The sprites finished their adorning and drew back into the water to play, making a wide berth from where the prince stood dripping.

"I can recite Master Murex's lessons all morning mother, by rote, mind you," he sighed as he wrung out his wet frocks as best as he could. With a wave of her graceful hand, the clothes and their owner were as dry as they once were, eliciting a delighted bark of laughter from her son. "Magic lessons from you are far more necessary, don't you think?"

Walking over to the pond's edge, the goddess queen drew her son in pace with her languid strides, taking his hand in hers.

"I was of your age when I learned by heart the extraordinary beginnings of our kingdom, a long, long time ago. I was tutored on your grandfather's lap. He told me of this kingdom along the boundaries of the mortal's lands. At that time, your father was a young king, just recently ascended to the throne when his own father was assassinated by mercenaries from the dark realms. Inasmuch as I felt a flame of compassion for this young king, I was a goddess, who had duties in my father's court. I wanted to traverse the whole of faerie in search for adventure, but I knew that I had to prepare myself for this journey first."

"Magic will manifest itself on its own when you reach the age of twelve, Dunne. Until then, you will have only your lessons to worry about."

The young prince's eyes were trained to the water's edge as they strolled, where myriads of colorful blooms bordered the path's edges. His mind played back on the day his grandfather came for a short visit, the very air surrounding him crackling with great power and ancient magic. The immortal god's handsome features had been forged into his memory like a favorite scent, with the beginnings of such features showing as he gazed into the crystalline water. A tuft of platinum blond hair blowing in the breeze graced the cheekbones still rounded with young age. An aquiline nose that showed his aristocratic ancestry set between a set of cobalt blue eyes that twinkled with affection for his mother, the same expression that his beloved grandfather had when he gazed lovingly at his only grandchild. That memorable visit was cut short with the news of a war brewing in the distant kingdoms, where the dark forces of numinous domains warred with the peace and order that the gods had established.

All around the protective barrier set by the goddess-queen, the land's deceptive calm was disrupted with sounds of preparation for battle; the ring of the blacksmith's hammer as he forged weapons of destruction, the flight of an archer's arrow as it ripped the air to sink into its target, the clash of silver-lined blades as soldiers sparred to defend their kingdom's peace, and the furious scratch of quill on paper, as a king sent an urgent missive to his dear older brother, who rejected a kingdom to choose mortality to be with the woman he loved.

II

Sir Geald's dimming eyes looked over the western sky decked in the colors of a mellow sunset as he thought of a bright kingdom, where life was full and abundant, and men in his full one hundred and twelve long years were still as robust and virile as a twenty year old in this mortal land. He had no regrets for choosing to be with his mortal love, albeit for a breath of time, but a pinprick of ingrained instinct knew that the lands that he once loved more than life itself were on the brink of something immensely vital. He thought of the brother he loved and the demi-god nephew whom he had never the pleasure of meeting, well, only in the regular letters that came in induced dreams. His brother had never given him cause to fret, knowing his fragile state of heart since he lost his beloved to death, but King Heald must have forgotten that a brother's instinct existed between them, and the rolls of worry and exhaustion whispered in his mind as he thought of his old home.

Whatever mischief that the dark lords had developed must have risen to bothersome levels. When he was once crown prince, he knew that there were only two dark lords in existence, kings of forgotten realms who had nothing to do with the bright kingdoms. Little was known about their existence although they were known to treasure privacy and keep to their own. Until a goddess literally dropped down from the sky to be his brother's queen, and a strong demi-god child came along as a product of their union, only then did the darkness became restless.

A stealthy little calico kitten with a white scarf swathed around her body darted out from the rushes growing in the banks of a clear, blue lake chasing the harried looking rabbit with a frayed blue ribbon tied to its fluffy tail. The tranquil waters reflecting the ice-capped mountains rippled as a six year-old violet eyed beauty, soaked from head to toe, stood catching minnows in the waist-deep water. A nearby village lay across the small lake, the stone houses and thatched roofs bathed in brighter colors by the noontide sun in all her splendor. Everyone else felt sated and lethargic after the second meal and a morning full of work in the fields and in the meager shops that the village boasted, all but the vibrant little girl who had, once again, escaped from her Nana Brigit.

The fair little miss was barely seen from the top of the rushes, as was her intention, as she expertly scooped little minnows into a waiting water-filled glass jar strung from her neck by a piece of the frayed blue ribbon that now streamed out as her pet bunny scampered across the grass, chased by the frolicking kitten, and gazed at by a frowning governess and her troop of snickering maids. Little violet-eyed Lorin's simple white dress and apron were, in Nana Brigit's consternation, ruined for the day. The blue ribbon which once bedecked her luxurious waist-long black braids was missing, and the tresses, which took thirty minutes to tame and was once covered with the kitten's grubby scarf, were now snagged and wind-blown.

The muttering of the search party brought Lorin to a crouch in the water, which didn't help keep the frantic minnows from swimming out to freedom. A large, matronly arm suddenly pulled the little girl out of the water by the scruff of her neck covered by the ruined dress.

"Ach let me go, put me down this instant!" screamed the little girl as she held on to the now empty glass jar.

"Aye, little runaway scamp, 'tis time for your nap," said the sturdy governess, as she set the girl in the ruined dress down and without missing a beat continued on, "Lord Geald's last wishes, little miss, was for me not to let you out of my sights, at all, in any circumstance. Is there any reason why you want us all banished from the manor and our families set out to starve come winter?" Nana Brigit crossed her arms as she said what she knows would bring the little girl to contrite tears.

Sure as the noonday sun shone down on all the women's wheat-colored heads, beads of moisture drip dropped from the remorseful violet eyes as she rammed her little body to the governess's legs and held on for dear life.

"Nay, Nana Brigit, I will not run off again! I swear you! Please don't leave the manor!" the now snotty girl sniffled out, truly remorseful at the moment, but who knows what she would be the next.

"As long as you pick yourself up and follow us back to the manor. Your mother is frantic, and the household has set forth in all directions to find you, you are just fortunate that the Dark ones have been far away today, or they would have surely taken you." Nana Brigit's eyes strayed to the direction of the craggy pass, where dark clouds billowed and a sense of doom exuded from by just gazing at the sight. Five years ago, after the knight's death had the dark clouds settled on the pass, and not a soul who ventured into the darkened pass have come back to tell the village of the reason of their foreboding, save three wounded, aged monks who now dwelt amongst them in the small parish and an ashen faced, visibly shaken squire bearing a blood-stained parchment wherein Sir Geald the Knight and Lord of the Manor had written his wishes.

"Protect the violet eyed Lorin, and never let her out of your sights," he penned. The Dark ones have come to know about her destiny, and her protection and custody have been placed by the Ones of the Light to your town. Without her, the Darkness would enter in. With her, the Light would overcome."


End file.
